


Endless Nights

by AZGirl



Series: Musketeers - Season 1 [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trigger Warnings: Chapters 2 & 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of them were worn out by the events of the past few days and more than ready for sleep, but it's evident that sleep is the last thing on any of their minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Athos

**Author's Note:**

> Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel of the same name inspired the title of this story.

**ooooooo**

_“Perhaps I was saving myself.” – Athos, 1.10 Musketeers Don’t Die Easily_. 

ooooooo 

**Chapter One: Athos**

Athos paused in his drinking, the bottle half way to his mouth, the memory so clear in his mind. He lowered the bottle slightly then very deliberately set it down on the ground next to his bed. 

The blood on Aramis’s hand and Porthos’s entreaties for d’Artagnan to stay awake had nearly done him in, bringing him so close to blowing their mission. Threatening to kill his wife was supposed to be a ploy to ensnare her, but in that moment, he’d actually wanted to do it. If he’d had another pistol ready at the time, he just might have done it. 

Standing by and letting that woman take his friend away, bleeding and unconscious, had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. The only thing keeping him from completely losing it had been the fact that Aramis had kept whispering reminders that d’Artagnan was alive and breathing, and that he the younger man was doing his duty by following their plan. 

When he’d reached the barracks, it had been a near thing to get to his room before he began to violently retch into his chamber pot. Everything that he’d ingested recently had been brought up. It had been years since overindulging in drinking had resulted in him surrendering to a sour stomach, though he had the strong suspicion it wasn’t really the drink causing this reaction. 

By the time Athos had re-emerged, he’d been shaky and feeling hungover with Porthos remarking that he’d looked like crap and Aramis handing him a cup of water to drink. They’d spent the rest of the night together sitting at their usual table underneath Tréville’s office balcony. His friends were probably both afraid to leave him alone in case he went after Milady. 

Seeing d’Artagnan alive, though clutching at his wounded side, had left him feeling a mix of emotions – guilt and relief chief amongst them. Continuing their charade in front of the rest of the Musketeers had been another difficult challenge. Reuniting in Tréville’s office, joking about what had happened and how their plans had gone slightly wrong had been a sort of balm to his wounded soul. When d’Artagnan had rounded them up into a four-way hug, it had been tangible evidence that the younger man was indeed alive and not a hallucination. 

After the fight for Constance was over and he’d let his wife go, they had all gone their separate ways in order to wrap everything up. Watching d’Artagnan escort Constance back home, he had been torn between doing his duty and ensuring that his two young friends stayed out of trouble.

Athos had detested letting d’Artagnan out of his sight again so soon, the younger man having walked away from his brothers too many times already in recent memory. 

Hours later, they had gathered at the Wren for something to eat and drink. They’d all been surprised that d’Artagnan had rejoined them so soon. Athos and the others quickly guessing the same thing: Constance had broken d’Artagnan’s heart once again. D’Artagnan was refusing to talk about what had happened and was attempting to put forth a brave face, but they could all see that he was devastated. Keeping d’Artagnan from using drink to drown his sorrows had kept him from drinking too much as well. Helping him had created a buffer and kept his demons, both old and new, at bay. 

Eventually exhaustion had won out and they’d left the tavern together intent on getting some sleep. They had walked at a sedate pace, each of them seemingly reluctant to let the others out of their sight after they had all nearly died multiple times. 

Because of their collective stubbornness, he could see that none of them were going to speak up about their desire to stay together the whole night, each perhaps thinking that the other needed time to themselves to process what they’d been through. As a result, they all went their separate ways. 

When he’d first entered his room, _that’s_ when he’d truly felt the loss of his friends’ presence. With them beside him, his demons were held in check. Without them, Athos could feel his demons encroaching upon him, trying to clutch at him almost as if they had physical forms. He could feel them now, waiting for him to fall asleep so that they could invade his mind and tear him apart from the inside. 

He had quickly made the decision to not even bother trying to sleep. It would be pointless with all the nightmares he was sure to have. His demons would see to it that any rest he did get would be mere minutes compared to the eternity he would spend within the dreams he would have. He most certainly _did not_ need to see himself shooting d’Artagnan yet again or any other scenario that a dreamscape could twist to new, horrifying dimensions. 

Aramis and Porthos had made him get a few hours of restless, dream-filled sleep the night he had shot his young friend, the amount of wine he had drunk aiding in that endeavor. Regardless of whether or not he slept on this night, his nightmares would still be waiting for him. He was really only delaying the inevitable. 

Athos had grabbed a couple of bottles of wine from the stash in his room and removed his weapons, doublet, and boots before reclining on his bed to drink the night away. 

Now, as time slipped slowly past him, all he wanted was to see his friends – his brothers – and make sure they were safe and sound. He was willing to bet that none of them were experiencing a good night’s sleep on this night. 

Exhaustion was weighing down his eyelids, making it more and more difficult for him to stay awake. Athos blinked and sat up, refusing to give into Hypnos who would in turn let Morpheus have his way with his inner demons. 

He got out of bed and started pacing the length of his room, but discovered he had traded one problem for another. He may not be dreaming, but being awake didn’t prevent his mind from recalling in detail and dwelling on the terrors of the past couple of days. 

After seeing d’Artagnan’s surprised yet pained face in his mind’s eye for the hundredth time, Athos strode over to his bed and pulled his boots on. He barely remembered to grab his doublet and weapons on the way out of his room. 

When he stepped into the courtyard and saw the table the four of them usually occupied, an idea suddenly came to mind, stopping him in his tracks. He turned and headed towards the supplies he was oddly certain that he would soon need. 

For the first time in days, he felt like he could smile. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**


	2. d'Artagnan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going with the idea that all four of the guys live at the garrison, which I know does not match up with the original book, but the show seems to imply. 
> 
> WARNING for potential triggers: For particulars, please see the note at the end of the chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

_“I will not murder my best friend.” – d’Artagnan, 1.10 Musketeers Don’t Die Easily._

ooooooo

**Chapter Two: d’Artagnan**

Unable to sleep with all the chaotic thoughts bouncing around in his head, d’Artagnan had started wandering the streets of Paris, attempting to drive himself to exhaustion.   

Due to a heavy fog having descended over the city, it was difficult to see very far in front of him as he walked. He had yet to run into or see anyone out and about at so late an hour, but that suited him just fine. After everything he’d been through recently, he was enjoying the almost eerie quiet that surrounded him. 

Walking without aim was allowing his mind to settle enough that he thought he might be able to finally fall back asleep when he returned to the garrison.

_Murderer._

It was just a faint whisper on the wind, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, but he heard it as clear as Notre Dame’s bells at midday. He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand on the hilt of his sword, straining his hearing in order to determine where the voice had come from. 

Having just passed an alley, he thought it reasonable that the voice had come from there, so he retraced his steps in hopes of discovering the voice’s owner but encountered no one. With the fog obscuring everything and still no one in sight, he guessed that he’d simply chosen the wrong direction and headed back the way he’d come. 

_Murderer._

The voice was louder this time and most certainly sounded accusatory. It was also definitely coming from somewhere close by; once again he turned and headed in the direction he thought the voice had come from. The fog shifted as he rushed through it, but otherwise he could see very little of what was in front of him. Slowing his steps to avoid running head first into trouble – either human or manmade – he hears it again. 

_Murderer._

He nearly jumped out of his skin with the proximity of the mysterious voice. It was as if it had come from right next to him, yet when he scanned his surroundings, there seemed to be no one around and nothing amiss. 

One thing was unmistakable about the voice: it had sounded like it was accusing _him_ of being a murderer. 

Noticing that he had unintentionally wandered back towards the garrison, he changed his direction intent on seeing if Athos was home. He hoped that the older man would be in his quarters and not be too drunk to help him.

_Murderer_. 

This time the voice had practically shouted its accusation, but he did his best to ignore it as he practically ran towards his mentor’s quarters. He badly needed Athos’s stoic, yet somehow calming, demeanor to help him understand what was happening to him. 

As he got closer and closer to where he hoped his friend was, the disembodied voice got louder and louder. He entered a city square intending to cut across it to get to the street which led directly to the garrison.

_Murderer_.

The accusing tone of that infernal voice sounded out at the same time as a pistol was fired. D’Artagnan ran towards the gunfire, not paying attention to where he put his feet as he ran through the dense fog. As a result, he tripped over something, causing him to fall sprawled out on the ground. Turning over carefully, he began to rise from the street when he spotted what had tripped him. 

It was a body. 

With the fog and the darker-than-normal surroundings, he couldn’t determine whose body it was at first, yet he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine and his stomach tried to drop into his feet.

_Murderer_.

He couldn’t ignore the voice if he had tried, it was yelling so loudly now. Its mocking tone was taunting him as he moved closer in order to lay a hand on the body’s shoulder to turn it over. 

As the body shifted to its back, d’Artagnan was confronted by the face of his best friend.

_Murderer_.

The voice screamed its accusation at him and he knew it was right that he should be blamed for this. He began to check for injuries, immediately feeling blood pouring out of Athos’s chest – right next to the heart. 

He lifted his hand and saw that it was saturated, dripping with blood, a puddle spreading outward onto the ground. It was obvious that there was nothing he – or anyone else – could do for Athos. 

It was all supposed to be fake, meant to fool Milady, but somehow everything had gone wrong and now his best friend was dying. It had been his idea to pretend to shoot Athos in order to fool Milady. It was his fault, he was a—

_Murderer_.

Guilt invaded and flooded his heart, mind, and soul as he realized the voice had been his own all along. 

He picked the older man’s body up and cradled it in his arms, begging Athos to not die though he knew his entreaties would be ignored. 

D’Artagnan could feel the breath rattling in Athos’s chest as his brother’s inhalations and exhalations slowed down.

_Murderer_.

The word was an indictment to his failure as a Musketeer. It was a pronouncement of the blame that rested on his shoulders and the guilt that was spreading within him. 

Athos drew in a painful breath and opened his eyes. After a moment, the unfocused gaze managed to focus on him, and he struggled to speak. Athos’s bloodied lips moved but no words could be heard over the loud beating of d’Artagnan’s heart. 

D’Artagnan leaned in closer and he felt tears begin to make their way down his face. 

“No, no, no. Stay awake. Stay awake. I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to… Just… Please, don’t…” 

His friend took another breath; blood dribbled out of his mouth and ran down Athos’s chin as he made another attempt to speak. 

With effort, Athos whispered one last word: 

_Murderer!_

Athos let out a final, gurgled exhale before d’Artagnan felt his friend go limp in his arms even as the older man’s eyes continued to stare at him in condemnation for his actions. 

Familiar, yet disembodied voices seemed to agree with Athos’s final judgment. Over and over they all chanted the same word in unison:

_Murderer._

D’Artagnan tore his gaze away from Athos’s accusing eyes, expecting to see his friends about to drag him away to the Châtelet to be executed for his crimes, but the fog coalesces and grows so thick around him that he cannot see any farther ahead than the length of his arm. 

He returned his gaze to Athos with the intention of closing his best friend’s eyes, but the body has mysteriously disappeared from his arms without him noticing. Frantically, he searched the ground around him on his hands and knees trying to find Athos, but there was nothing but the voices repeating the same word again and again.

_Murderer_. 

He stands on shaky legs and puts his hands to his ears in an attempt to block the voices, but to no avail. 

Suddenly, a hand reaches out of the fog to snatch the pistol he’s carrying from his belt. 

When he turns to see who has taken his weapon, he is stunned and more than a little relieved to see that it was Athos.

His relief is short-lived when he notices the blood saturating the front of his mentor’s doublet. 

Athos takes a step back and points the pistol straight at his heart. Too shocked to do anything about it, yet strangely accepting of his impending fate, d’Artagnan stands there waiting for the end. He locked eyes with Athos and saw an expression that chilled him to his very core. 

As Athos began pulling the trigger, he hears his own voice say:

_Murderer_.

Gasping for breath, he opens his eyes. Pain assaults him – not all of it is physical. 

D’Artagnan carefully sits up in bed. He is breathing heavily, causing the healing ribs and wound on his left side to ache a little. Moving a hand to the bandages covering the gunshot wound Athos had inflicted on him, he was pleased to discover that there was no new blood seeping through. 

Trying to get his breathing back under control, he keeps reminding himself that it was just a nightmare, that what had happened was _not_ real. That Athos was alive and _not_ dead. 

It wasn’t his first nightmare with this particular theme nor, he suspected, would it be his last. Each time he had it, he couldn’t help the feelings of guilt, remorse, and regret that followed him into the waking world. 

For some reason, this particular nightmare felt different, making him doubt reality. He knew Athos was alive and safe at home, yet d’Artagnan had the overwhelming urge to check in on his friend’s well-being. 

He knew it was ridiculous to be so effected by a dream, but his mind wouldn’t let go of the desire to confirm with his own eyes that Athos was alive and well. Unable to stand it any longer, d’Artagnan got up and got dressed, only wincing a little when he put his shirt and doublet on. 

Irrational or not, he would seek out Athos. He had to see for himself that his friend was alive and prove that he was not a murderer. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
>  WARNING (Spoiler): Temporary, slightly graphic, death of a major character is depicted within a dreamscape.


	3. Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for potential triggers: For particulars, please see the note at the end of the chapter.   
> .

**ooooooo**

_“I will lay down my life for him if necessary.” – Aramis, 1.10 Musketeers Don’t Die Easily._

ooooooo 

**Chapter Three: Aramis**

At first, he doesn’t know where he is or exactly what is happening. 

Aramis feels as though he is moving along at a snail’s pace in comparison to how quickly his immediate surroundings are rushing past him at speeds no animal or carriage could possibly attain. 

One moment his vision is a multi-colored blur, and in the next, everything seems to be frozen in time. Whatever had been propelling him forward has stopped and now he is trying to see past the bright light filling his vision. 

He blinks several times, trying to get used to the light. When he does, that’s when he sees it. 

A scaffold. 

From where he’s standing, it looks crudely made, having obviously been built in a great hurry. Aramis idly wonders if he’s to be the noose’s next customer even though he is not hampered by chains or even surrounded by guards. 

In the blink of an eye, he is suddenly standing at the foot of the gallows platform. Looking around him, he notices that he is completely alone. The fact that there is no audience unnerves him more than it should. He’s never been able to fathom why, but many people find a hanging to be good entertainment. For there to be no audience suggests the proceedings are being kept secret from the public. 

For the moment, it’s just him and the structure standing tall in front of him, a bone-chilling breeze making the noose swing gently back and forth in a hypnotic manner. 

The sound of heavy boots on the stairs catches his attention and he turns his head to see Athos, face bruised and hands tied behind his back, being led docilely towards the noose by a couple of Red Guards. Athos looks resigned to his fate, almost welcoming of it. When the guards let go, Athos voluntarily steps forward and up onto a wooden block. His feet are tied together by the Guards who then seem to melt away out of existence. 

How had he missed his friend being brought over to the gallows? And why would Athos be so willing to go towards such a disgraceful death? Is it possible that Athos was protecting him from having to share the same fate? 

Suddenly, where there had once been no one but Athos upon the platform, an executioner now stood next to the waiting rope. The tall, thin man is dressed in red and black and his mask covers all but the eyes, which are familiar to him yet he does not know why. 

When the noose is placed around Athos’s neck, Aramis opens his mouth to protest the injustice, confess his sins, and bargain for a stay of execution – anything which will stop the sentence from being carried out. He’s willing to say whatever it takes to get this travesty of justice to stop, but no sound issues forth from his lips and his feet seem to have taken root to the spot. 

The only thing left that he _can_ do is watch as one of his best friends is about to be hanged for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and for not stopping him from giving into his passions. Given what little he knows about Athos’s past life, the mode of execution seems beyond cruel, especially since the drop will not be enough to break his friend’s neck. 

Athos will slowly, painfully suffocate to death. 

If he could, he would be right next to his friend, or better yet, his neck would be in that noose instead of Athos’s. He would gladly trade his life, if only his friend would be allowed to live. It must be part of his punishment, his torture that he alone is being made to watch the consequences of his actions as they are visited upon his brother. 

Aramis knows the end is near when the noose is tightened around Athos’s neck and the executioner goes to stand behind the condemned. He closes his eyes when he realizes that he actually can’t bear to witness what is about to happen. 

For a brief moment, he is happy that Tréville, Porthos, and d’Artagnan are not there to see their friend die such a horrible death. But in the next, he realizes that someone should bear witness and that someone has to be him. Having another die for his sins is not a new concept to him, but for Athos there will be no resurrection until the trumpet sounds. 

He opens his eyes, expecting to see Athos with the noose still around his neck, but instead he sees Queen Anne. Her hair has been styled into a simple, yet elegant bun at the back of her head and she is dressed in a plain, white shift that in no way hides her condition. It is very obvious that Anne is heavy with child and almost ready to give birth. Her beautiful neck is no longer encircled with expensive jewels but with the rope that only moments before had been around Athos’s neck. 

His attempts to move and speak become even more frantic with his need to get to Anne and their child. His panic increases and it gets more and more difficult for him to breathe. It’s almost as if he now has his own, tightened noose around his neck. 

The executioner nods at him briefly before kicking the block out from under the Queen’s feet. 

It’s only then that he gets his voice back. 

“No!”

 

ooooooo

 

Aramis claws at his throat even as he is reaching for someone who is no longer there in front of him. The terror and helplessness from his dream – _nightmare_ – remain despite his near instant recognition of his quarters. 

He slides his feet over the edge of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees while his hands repeatedly run through his hair. Ever so slowly, his breath returns to normal, even as his fear for Athos and for Anne and their unborn child remains strong. 

After a while, he stands and finds that his legs are willing to hold him up. He wipes away the sweat and tears that have accumulated on his face and begins to pace back and forth across his room, trying to convince himself that it had only been a nightmare. Several minutes later, Notre Dame’s bells ring the hour; it was much later than he thought. 

His dream might have been only a nightmare, but it could still someday become a terrible reality if he is not careful. He will not let any of his loved ones atone for his sins if he can help it. And if he can’t help it, then he will gladly die beside them. 

Eventually, he tires of pacing and sits back down on his bed though he knows he will not be able to get any more sleep on this night. 

Staying in his room would only encourage his thoughts to continue on a downward spiral that would only lead to oblivion if he is not careful. For a few weeks after Savoy, there had been a very fine line between despair and oblivion; he refuses to let things get that bad ever again. 

Aramis needed a distraction and he needed it forthwith. A number of ideas come to mind, but there are very few courses of action open to him at this time of night. 

He reaches for his clothes. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
>  Trigger WARNINGS (Spoiler): Threat of death by hanging of two major characters, including a heavily pregnant woman. Start reading at the section break in order to skip that part.


	4. Porthos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a difficult time writing for Porthos; hopefully I did his character justice.

**ooooooo**

_“Was a funeral strictly necessary?” – Porthos, 1.10 Musketeers Don’t Die Easily_. 

ooooooo 

**Chapter Four: Porthos**

When his eyes pop open, Porthos’s first instinct is to remain as still as possible in order to assess his surroundings for possible danger. It’s a custom that was firmly ingrained into him during his time living at the Court of Miracles. He’s never been able to shake the habit, and he doesn’t think he ever will since it has saved his life more than once over the years. 

It takes him hardly any time at all to realize that he is lying on his bed in his own room at the garrison. When he opens his eyes and rolls over onto his back, he finds that too many of the images from his recent dream have followed him into the waking world. 

Porthos sits up and shifts his body until he is leaning back against the wall. He runs a hand over his face and encounters dampness on his cheeks… Tears? 

Given what he’d faced not long ago, both in the real world and in the world his mind had conjured while asleep, he’s not really all that surprised to find that he’s shed a few tears as a result. 

Athos’s fake funeral had hit him harder than he would have guessed. Even though he knew it was a ruse to keep up pretenses for their plan, and that Athos had been waiting for them in a nearby tavern, it had felt far too real. The Captain had played his part and made sure the funeral had included all rights and honors due to any commissioned Musketeer at death. 

More than anything, it was the thought that one of his brothers had been lost to him forever that had made the graveside ceremony so emotional a time for him. Growing up in the Court of Miracles, he had first met death when he was only five years old and his mother had died from a fever. As a soldier, he had been intimately acquainted with the ways and means of inflicting death for many years now. 

Death happens to everyone; it was a regular part of the life he lived. It could be delayed for an hour, a day, or many years, but it still came. Nothing and no one escaped Death’s clutches. 

Yet, no matter how accustomed he was to the idea of death, he still wanted to hold it back as long as possible for those he loved. The Musketeers – especially Tréville, Aramis, Athos, and d’Artagnan – are the only family he has and he is determined to hold onto them as long as possible. The funeral had been a little too authentic and reminded him that one day he really would be burying one or more of his best friends. 

He lifts an arm up and drapes it over his eyes, a heavy sigh accompanying the movement. Without his consent, his mind returns to the scene of his nightmare, and he’s powerless to stop thinking about what he’d experienced while he’d been asleep. 

_They were gathered at the Musketeers’ graveyard, standing in front of a hole recently dug into the dark earth. Several Musketeers, their blue cloaks flapping around in the wind and light rain, slowly lowered a casket adorned with a fleur-de-lis into the ground. Their job done, they stepped back and merged with the rest of the group attending the funeral.  
_

_Captain Tréville, hat held up to his chest and cloak just as windblown, stepped up to the foot of the grave in preparation to give a eulogy for his recently fallen soldier. As was custom, the fallen’s closest friends were given a priority placement behind their Captain and separate from their fellow Musketeers. The priest began the ceremony, but Porthos hardly heard a word the holy man was saying due to the grief for his lost brother which had begun to well up within him.  
_

_To his right was Aramis, who he knew was taking the death of their friend very hard, having felt that he could’ve prevented the wound from becoming life threatening. Aramis firmly believed that their brother would still be alive today if he had been allowed to attend to the wound instead of some back alley barber. Making the situation worse was the fact that Porthos knew that even stepping foot in the Musketeer cemetery was extremely difficult for Aramis, as too many of the graves belonged to those men lost in Savoy, the iron crosses a far too tangible reminder of a tragedy prompted by politics.  
_

_The man standing to his left was barely able to stand up straight he was swaying so much due to the copious amounts of alcohol already ingested. Close to inconsolable, the man was blaming himself for what had happened, and would not hear reason. Refusing to eat and sleep, the man had declined to attend the funeral at first, saying that he did not have the right to be there having been the instrument of another brother’s death. Porthos knew that if they weren’t careful, that he and Aramis would soon be attending another funeral.  
_

_The priest asking for Captain Tréville to take over brought Porthos back to the unpleasant present. Porthos had to admit that he was curious what the older man would say about their fallen brother.  
_

_“Today, we are gathered together to put to rest our fallen comrade and brother. D’Artagnan was—”_

Tréville saying d’Artagnan’s name had been so unexpected that it had caused him to awaken. 

Even now the funeral from his nightmare remained so vivid, so…real that he was having a difficult time convincing himself that it had not actually taken place. 

The memory of d’Artagnan lying unconscious in the Captain’s arms due to a miscalculated gunshot still haunted him. Porthos’s heart had lodged in his throat until he saw that d’Artagnan still lived. He had known Athos would be beside himself with guilt for what he had done; it would be yet another regret heaped onto the pile Porthos knew was already weighing down the other man’s shoulders. 

He recognizes that his nightmare has twisted the events of Athos’s funeral together with d’Artagnan being wounded, but he still feels the loss as if one of his brothers had actually died. He can’t shake the images from his mind. 

Getting back to sleep now seems impossible when normally he would not have had a problem. All Porthos can think about is how d’Artagnan’s head had lolled as the young man had slipped into unconsciousness, heedless of his commands to stay awake. 

Letting Milady take his wounded brother away had been one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Not knowing d’Artagnan’s fate for so many hours had been just as difficult to bear. 

Thinking back to that mess was only making him more and more anxious about d’Artagnan’s current welfare. Aramis said the wound was healing well, but though the Gascon had tried to hide it, he’d seen d’Artagnan grimace in pain more than once during their celebration at the tavern. 

Porthos pushed back the covers of his bed and got up, quickly striding over to his clothes which were draped over one of his chairs. 

D’Artagnan’s room was in a barracks building on the other side of the garrison. It wouldn’t take very long for him to go over there and check in on his young friend. 

Perhaps once he was reassured that d’Artagnan was alive and well, he would be able to get back to sleep. 

ooooooo 

_To be concluded._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is dedicated to celticgal1041 whose suggestion helped to make this chapter much better than it was.


	5. Seeking One Another

**ooooooo**

_“The friendship which united these four men, and the need they felt of seeing another three or four times a day,…caused them to be continually running after one another like shadows…” ~~~~~Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers._

ooooooo **  
**

**Chapter Five: Seeking One Another**

Athos opened one of several bottles of wine that he had collected, and poured out a portion into one of the four cups he had acquired from the mess. 

He was content to be away from his room even though it had not done much to rid him of his inner demons. The change of location did have its benefits though. Aside from quieting his demons, which he believed would always haunt him, the garrison’s courtyard was a place which evoked good memories. Training or going to taverns with his friends. Sharing a meal after a long day of being on parade at the palace. A young, Gascon farm boy storming into their lives. 

From time-to-time as he drank, his gaze would travel towards the direction of d’Artagnan’s room, and he was torn between wanting to go check on the younger man’s condition and letting him get some much needed sleep. Athos knew that all of the action surrounding his former wife’s defeat had taken its toll on d’Artagnan’s gunshot wound, though his friend had tried to hide the pain from his injury from them all. 

Knowing d’Artagnan as well as he did, he knew the Gascon was suffering from far more than the physical pain of his gunshot wound. D’Artagnan had made a valiant effort to hide the physical pain from them all, but had failed miserably in his efforts. Athos was certain that no one had missed the odd, unguarded flinch when the younger man moved in certain ways. 

They could all see how much emotional pain d’Artagnan was in due to whatever had happened with Constance, but Athos was fairly certain that he was the only one who could see how much being shot by a friend – by him – had affected the younger man. When they had first reunited, d’Artagnan had made a joke of the situation, but later when they were preparing for their battle to save Constance, he’d seen d’Artagnan’s hand occasionally stray to his wounded side. The accompanying expression he’d seen on d’Artagnan’s face was not one of pain but that of being caught up in a memory. Though not a life-threatening wound, it was the first relatively major one he had received as a Musketeer. Athos knew that the two of them would need to sit down and talk privately about what had happened so that he could get d’Artagnan back on an even keel. 

Athos found that he was continuously battling the urge to make his way to his friends’ quarters. He wanted them to join him so that he could allay his fears and not feel so alone, but also had the feeling that he should let them to get what sleep they could manage. 

The feeling to leave his friends alone for the present seemed to be the same thing that had prompted him to retrieve the wine and four glasses and told him to be patient. Was it instinct or something else which told him that his brothers would soon be joining him? 

The relative quiet of the night was suddenly disturbed by a door opening and closing followed by booted footsteps carefully making their way down a corridor. From the direction of the sounds, he knew exactly who was out and about at such a late hour. 

He remained hunched over his cup of wine, listening to the footfalls on the landing and then on the stairs emptying out behind the courtyard. It was amazing how much those sounds had lifted his mood even though he’d not yet seen their maker. When the footfalls quieted and did not approach his table, he looked up. When he saw that it was indeed d’Artagnan, he couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. 

Athos brought one of the three remaining glasses on the table closer to him and started to pour some wine into it. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan had tried to be as quiet as possible as he had hurriedly left his room and made his way to the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye as he practically raced across the courtyard towards Athos’s room, he spotted a familiar shape sitting hunched over the table nearest to the mess, the one the others had seemed to have claimed as theirs. 

In the dim light of a nearby torch and several candles sitting on the table, the figure was barely visible, but he would know it anywhere. If d’Artagnan didn’t any know better, he might have thought that he had summoned Athos purely by wishing to see him so badly. His heart leapt into his throat when he had the fleeting thought that what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination and not the real man. Though a ridiculous concept, it had him pausing mid-step, making him reluctant to find out for sure. What if his nightmare wasn’t a dream? 

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there staring, waiting for some sign that the figure was real, when it finally raised its head and Athos looked towards him. He couldn’t see the older man’s face very well but it was definitely Athos and not some apparition. From what he could see, d’Artagnan got the impression that Athos was happy and more than a little relieved to see him; the feeling was most definitely mutual. He was thankful to God that his friend was alive and that he was not a murderer. 

After a moment, his friend reached for something on the table, and he could see that Athos was pouring something, likely wine, into a cup before setting it on the table next to him. 

D’Artagnan smiled at the Athos-ness of the invitation and headed towards the long table. When he stepped up to it, he saw several bottles of wine and four cups. It was clear that Athos had been hoping that one or more of his friends would eventually come to join him. 

He almost sat down across from his mentor, but from the placement of the cup Athos had filled, it was clear that the older man wanted him to sit beside him. The newest Musketeer found he could not resist so clear a request and had no problem giving in. 

When he sat down, he expected the other man to say something, but Athos seemed disinclined to speak. D’Artagnan actually found that he didn’t mind the companionable silence between them, content to be in the presence of his friend. 

Eventually, d’Artagnan took a sip of wine, and when he set the cup back down on the table, Athos stretched out his left hand to briefly grip the Gascon’s right forearm. When the hand began to retreat, d’Artagnan quickly moved his left hand to trap Athos’s; he patted it twice and let go. 

D’Artagnan felt that those gestures alone had expressed more than anything they could’ve ever said aloud to each other. 

ooooooo 

Arriving in the courtyard, Aramis is somehow not surprised to see Athos and d’Artagnan sitting next to each other at their table. It’s easy to see that they are both lost in their own thoughts, drinking wine and providing each other with comfort in the form of the company of a brother. 

When he had left his room, Aramis had thought to seek some sort of distraction by cleaning the garrison’s weapons or by going to a tavern, but the idea of spending time with his friends and brothers was infinitely better in his mind. In a sudden burst of hindsight, Aramis realizes that they should never have gone their separate ways, never let each other go off to deal with recent events on their own. What’s done is done and there was nothing they could do to change things. Nothing, except perhaps exactly what he was about to do. 

As he joins the others and sits down across from Athos, d’Artagnan breaks out of his distracted state to look up at him with a small smile of greeting while Athos pours him a cup of wine. He immediately notices that there is now only one empty cup left on the table, and he knows without a doubt that three will soon be four. 

He lifts his cup and drinks in acknowledgement of their seemingly mutual predicament. Even in the sparse candlelight, it’s readily apparent that both Athos and d’Artagnan have had their own difficulties sleeping. Though, from the look of Athos, he would wager that his brother had not even bothered _trying_ to sleep in the first place. It’s also obvious that d’Artagnan’s wound is still plaguing him and he made a mental note to check the younger man’s wound soonest. 

Aside from several lit candles, there are several bottles of wine and four glasses, three of which were currently being used. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that Athos had been the first to arrive and wondered if it had been intuition or wishful thinking on Athos’s part that the man had prepared for the company of his brothers. 

It would seem that, on this night, they were all being plagued by thoughts too substantial to allow for a peaceful night asleep in bed. 

He sipped at his wine as they quietly waited for Porthos to join them, hoping that their missing friend would be with them soon. 

ooooooo 

Porthos quickly debated the quickest route to d’Artagnan’s room and set out towards the courtyard, needing to ease his mind as soon as possible. 

So focused on checking on d’Artagnan, Porthos didn’t immediately notice that his friends were sitting at their usual table. 

A familiar whistle stopped him in his tracks, causing him to look in the direction the sound had come from. He couldn’t help the big smile that overtook his face when he saw that his best friends were all together and sitting at their table as if they had been expecting him to show up. 

Aramis raises a hand to waive him over, but he had already begun heading their way, his grin remaining on his face. Apparently, they were not meant to spend the night apart from each other, and he was more than happy to go with the flow. 

He sat in the space left open for him next to Aramis and across from d’Artagnan. The younger man looked exhausted, and perhaps a little heartsick, but he was definitely alive. Seeing d’Artagnan alive helped to dissipate from his mind the lingering sense of loss that his nightmare had left with him. 

When Athos handed him a cup of wine, Porthos noticed that the other man looked like he needed to sleep for a day. His other two friends did not seem much better, but he said nothing about it because he probably didn’t look any better. 

Instead, he silently raised his cup in a toast to their earlier success and for them all making it out alive. The others raised their cups and they brought them to meet in the middle of the table before taking a drink. 

All of them were worn out by the events of the past few days and more than ready for sleep, but it’s evident that sleep is the last thing on any of their minds. He suspects that he was not the only one to have had their sleep plagued by nightmares, and that they all had needed to assure themselves that their brothers were truly alive. 

In this moment, he was content to spend the rest of the night drinking with his friends and rejoicing in his brothers’ continued existence on this side of Heaven. 

ooooooo 

Captain Tréville stood on the balcony, leaning against the rail and looking down upon his men. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan gathered together around the table below. In fact, he would have been more surprised to have _not_ seen them there. All four had gone through so much, both together and separately, in the past year that he knew that his four boys needed this quiet time in each other’s presence. It was an opportunity for them to not only reconnect, but to provide support for each other and deepen their bonds of friendship and brotherhood. 

When d’Artagnan had come bursting into their lives, he had immediately noticed the change in Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. If he hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would have believed just how quickly d’Artagnan had been accepted by the three Musketeers. Even Athos, whose mercurial moods never seemed to faze the young Gascon, had accepted him into his life. 

He was good for them and they were good for d’Artagnan. Athos was one of d’Artagnan’s staunchest defenders and genuinely seemed to care for the lad. Porthos seemed to have this desire to protect him from all forms of harm, whether it was an insult or a bullet. Aramis relished the idea of having someone upon which to impart his extensive knowledge about the fairer sex, regardless of whether or not the younger man wanted it. 

Until the other day in his office, he had never seen Athos hug anyone, but d’Artagnan had not given him any chance to refuse. Athos had accepted and returned the hug with good grace that Tréville would never have expected. 

Tréville had not been surprised to hear that it had taken three bottles of wine before Athos could bring himself to shoot the younger man. It had been a while since he’d heard of Athos drinking so much, but it had been understandable given the situation. One would need a lot of liquid courage to purposely shoot someone they held so dear for the sake of King and Country. 

D’Artagnan would likely never admit how much his wound was still bothering him. It was probable that d’Artagnan wanted to keep Athos from heaping any more guilt upon himself for causing his younger brother pain. However, Athos and the others seemed to be aware of the man’s condition regardless. 

His youngest was obviously flagging, holding his side and leaning towards Athos who was sitting next to him. Aramis and Porthos were quietly playing some card game while Athos watched and occasionally sipped at a cup of wine. 

When d’Artagnan’s head began to droop, Athos lifted his arm and draped it over the younger man’s shoulders, drawing the lad in closer to his side. Aramis looked up from his game and reached forward to gently lay a hand on d’Artagnan’s forehead in order to check for a fever, while Porthos looked on, obviously concerned for the younger man. 

If he hadn’t just seen it for himself, he wouldn’t have believed the sight he had just witnessed. It wasn’t that the younger man was averse to touching or being touched, rather it was Athos’s natural aloofness that tended to keep most people from getting close enough to discover differently. That d’Artagnan could so easily slip in under Athos’s defenses, was further testament to their ever-growing bond. 

As Aramis’s hand drops from d’Artagnan’s forehead, he shakes his head in the negative, indicating that there is no fever. The other two are visibly relieved and he finds himself releasing a sigh of relief as well. Without being able to hear the conversation going on below, he guesses that the Gascon is merely exhausted and needing time to properly recover. 

The past few days had been overly long and he knows that sleep had been a rare commodity for all of them. Given how tired he was, he should have been able to sleep like a newborn babe, but he had been plagued by disturbing dreams of what could’ve happened to his men during their fight to save Madame Bonacieux. He had stepped out onto his balcony for some fresh air in hopes that it might sweep away the horrific images that his mind had conjured. 

After observing his boys for some time now and convincing himself that they were alive and mostly whole, something had settled within him. He thought he could finally get back to sleep. 

As he quietly stepped back from the rail, Athos turned to look up at him. Tréville tipped his head in the direction of d’Artagnan’s quarters, which were situated in the largest of the barracks buildings, hinting that they all needed some sleep. Athos nodded his understanding, but Tréville got the distinct impression that it would be a while yet before that actually happened. 

His own exhaustion weighing heavily upon him, Tréville headed towards his room. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full quote, check out chapter 7 of the original book; the part that’s missing is the part that inspired the title of this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
